The Beginning
"Ruby!"
The voice cracked through the hallway like a whip. "How many times must I call you before you answer?"
Ruby halted mid-step, the weight of the laundry basket digging into her arms. She drew in a slow, steadying breath. That tone—sharp, impatient, laced with irritation—had become the constant soundtrack of her life.
"Yes, ma," she replied softly as she stepped into the living room.
Mrs. Vivian Cole stood waiting, arms folded with calculated elegance, her manicured nails tapping rhythmically against her elbow. Beside her, Clara lounged on the couch like royalty, legs stretched comfortably, eyes glued to her phone screen.
"What took you so long?" Vivian demanded.
"I was hanging the clothes outside," Ruby murmured.
Clara finally looked up, a mocking smirk tugging at her lips. "And you couldn't run? Honestly, Ruby, you walk like someone twice your age."
Heat crawled up Ruby's neck, humiliation prickling under her skin, but she kept her head lowered. "I'm sorry."
Vivian scoffed. "Sorry doesn't cook dinner. Move to the kitchen and start preparing food before your laziness keeps us all waiting."
"But… I haven't finished cleaning the rooms," Ruby said quietly.
Vivian's gaze sharpened. "Did I ask for an update on your chores? Or are you now bold enough to argue with me?"
"No, ma," Ruby whispered.
"Good. Now move."
Ruby nodded and hurried toward the kitchen, feeling Clara's satisfied stare boring into her back.
The moment she crossed the threshold, her chest tightened. Her eyes stung. Another day. Another insult. Another reminder that in her own father's house… she was nothing more than a servant.
---
Ruby Cole hadn't always lived this way.
There was a time—distant, tender, almost dreamlike—when love danced freely in the walls of this home. Her childhood had been filled with warm laughter, her mother's humming drifting through the air, and her father's terrible dancing that somehow made everything funnier.
Her mother, Pamela Cole, had been her sun—gentle, nurturing, and endlessly patient. Her father adored them both, the three of them forming a world Ruby believed would last forever.
But forever ended when Ruby turned nine.
Pamela's illness began quietly, stealing her strength little by little until there was nothing left to fight with. Ruby remembered holding her mother's hands, feeling the warmth slip away day by day. She remembered the nights spent praying, the mornings spent hoping, the evening her mother whispered, "Be strong, my Ruby," before her voice faded like a candle's last breath.
The night her mother died, something inside Ruby broke beyond repair.
Her father broke too.
And broken people attract shadows.
That shadow came in the form of Vivian.
She entered their lives when Ruby was eleven—beautiful, sophisticated, and smiling a smile that never reached her eyes. When Anderson introduced her as a "friend," Ruby had felt her stomach tighten, though she didn't understand why.
Vivian touched Ruby's hair the first day they met and said, "Oh, she's cute. Fragile. Like a stray kitten."
Ruby smiled politely then, not knowing the truth hiding beneath those words.
Six months later, Vivian became Mrs. Cole.
With her came Clara—thirteen, fashionable, confident, and dripping with entitlement. Clara looked Ruby over the way someone examines a stain on their shirt.
Ruby tried to be friendly.
"Hi," she greeted shyly. "Do you want to play something?"
Clara wrinkled her nose. "Play? With you? My friends don't play with housemaids."
Those words marked the beginning of a new reality.
Vivian was sweet only when Anderson was home, showering Ruby with false praises—"Ruby is so helpful… Ruby is such a good girl"—while wearing the mask of a perfect stepmother.
But the moment Anderson stepped out, the mask crumbled.
Suddenly, Ruby became the reason everything was wrong.
"You washed the plates late."
"You didn't sweep this corner well."
"You're too slow."
"You're careless."
"You embarrass me."
"You have no respect."
"You're old enough to behave better."
Clara was worse. If Vivian insulted Ruby twice, Clara did it ten times. If Vivian raised her voice, Clara screamed. Ruby quickly learned that silence was the safest response.
By thirteen, Ruby was doing everything in the house:
Cooking every meal.
Washing clothes by hand.
Cleaning every room—twice if necessary.
Fetching water.
Ironing clothes, even the ones Clara deliberately wrinkled.
Running errands late into the night.
Tidying up after Clara's parties.
And still trying to keep up with her homework when her eyes could barely stay open.
Vivian never lifted a finger.
Clara didn't even know how to boil water.
Anderson? He never saw the darkness behind the curtain. Vivian made sure of that. Whenever he was home, she played the angelic stepmother, holding Ruby's hand and praising her like a beloved daughter.
The house only turned into a battlefield the moment he left.
Ruby learned to swallow her tears. To quiet her pain. To keep moving even when her legs trembled.
But every time she looked at the front gate—at the world beyond it—something inside her whispered: